And the World Keeps Spinning
by nechoco kitty
Summary: There's blood on her hands, and while she hasn't turned crazy, sometimes she thinks she should have.  post-series


_August 1, 2011; 31-days theme: "the dying of a small god within you"  
><em>warning: implied character death, post-series

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There is something small and broken within her; brittle and jagged, edges that are made for tearing into tender flesh. It rattles inside her chest each time she takes a single, shuddering breath, like a toy that was broken on the inside only nobody knew.

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**( **_her heart is broken and the thought is so clichéd and so tragic that she isn't sure if she wants to laugh or if she wants to cry, __so she does both when nobody's watching because if they saw her they'd know__—they'd know something was wrong and then_—_and then everything would be wrong and she isn't sure she can take anymore wrongness in the world right now_ **)**

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She looks at her hands. The skin is white and clean, covered in callouses from archery, from gymnastics, from clutching a pen so hard in her hand that the imprint hasn't gone away in three years even though all of her work from her "poet" phase are buried under schoolwork her dad saved from the ages of five 'til forever; and then panic claws at her like bad poetry, or a trite and tired reference to Shakespeare. Somewhere along the way she went from Juliet to Lady Macbeth, and she doesn't remember the howwhenwhywhere of it.

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**( out! out, damned spot!** _she wants to say because she can still see that blood__—all that blood; it was everywhere and it wouldn't go away and it still hasn't gone away, really, __because she can't stop seeing it; because she can _**still** _see it when she closes her eyes and dreams about a boy with a smile that melted her heart_—_but that's the only line she knows from the play and she isn't even sure if it would fit, so she doesn't say it because the thought of Lydia's mocking-__correction is enough to stop her even though she hasn't spoken to the redhead in months, __but then she hasn't spoken to anyone in ages, either, so why should her backstabbing, __lying friend be any different _**)**

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She asks her dad, but he doesn't have any answers for her. She'd ask Kate, but her aunt is long gone and at this point she isn't sure she'd trust what she'd say if she was there. After everything that's happened, she isn't sure if she'd trust anyone, or if anyone could trust her. If they even should.

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**( **_her mom will never leave Beacon Hills, __and the realization leaves a sour taste in her mouth because she _**knows **_that she'll never set foot there ever ever again._ **)**

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Every perfect shot she makes has her father glowing with pride, and maybe something else. Something the color of slate; something that tastes like aged bourbon and looks a lot like regret. He's drinking himself into an early grave, only he does it when he thinks nobody's watching but she is because he's the only thing she has left and she's so so _tired_ of having her head so far up her ass that she can't see anything but her own shit. She doesn't want to be that girl, but she doesn't know what else to be, either.

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**(** _he's a quiet drunk. quiet and contemplative, and if he cries then he hides that better than the drinking because she can't even remember him crying at the funeral, __but then she hadn't cried either so maybe they were both hurting too much to cry, if that even made sense. and it's ok if it doesn't because very little made sense these days, __so what was one more in the grand scheme of things?_ **)**

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One night, she joins him at the kitchen table with a couple of beers and a half-empty bottle of tequila. He tries to give her this 'What do you think you're doing, young lady' look because she's three weeks away from being nineteen and it's a school night and he's still her dad even though he isn't the same gruff, loving hardass she grew up with, but that man is gone now. This stranger is sad and lonely, with a tired face that he rubs a couple times before he pulls out another chair for her. This dad says nothing while they drink the night away, and the silence is tense, but it's also companionable.

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**(** _when she wakes up after noon, hungover and drained, she knows it's not a dream; __all of this is real__—horribly, unavoidably real—and it isn't any better than it was yesterday, __but it isn't any worse, either, and she thinks she might be able to live with that_**)**

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**ahn~** your thoughts, I want to hear them~ (heart)


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